James Smith: Hybrid

He quickly knelt to switch to a 400-millimeter lens when a bull moose appeared through a thicket of aspen. Planted in a pool at the river’s edge the huge mammal chomped on moss that waved like a field of wheat just below the surface. The golden brown antlers spanned at least five feet.

Parsons plucked a clump of dry field grass and tossed it high. The blades fluttered down and drifted back toward him. Good.

A shadow of another creature streaked through the tall grass to his left but moved too fast to make out.

Whoosh.

A coal-black raven landed on the branch of a hemlock above. Two others landed nearby. Wings flapping, they jockeyed for space. When the moose turned his way, Parsons ducked and then slowly rose and peered through his field binoculars. A dog-like figure that was much too large for a coyote crept toward the moose from the rear. The moose resumed grazing, unaware of the impending danger.

The intruder inched forward but stayed low in the grass. Its fur was a burnished black like the feathers of the ravens surrounding him. Although much larger than he’d been led to believe, the humongous animal could only be a wolf. It stopped and twisted its head about as if surveying the area.

Parsons ducked again, now breathing faster. A wolf attacking a moose is the action shot of a lifetime. He pulled his shoulder straps with the Nikon camera and gear around to his side. Crouching low, he shuffled through the scrub oak and weeds in the direction of the expected action. More ravens swarmed overhead and cast haunting shadows dizzily around him. As if on command they flew directly down, cackling with wings swishing and settled onto tree branches.

The hullaballoo distracted from the morning peace. He stopped to stifle a sneeze, then stood tall to stretch his aching back.

Where the hell is the wolf?

Another pitfall of wildlife photography. As quickly as the midnight black wolf had arrived, it disappeared. But the bull moose stood in full view, chomping on the underwater moss. He quickly set up his tripod and pushed the canvas camo hat away from his face. His eyes itched from the ragweed pollen, and he wiped at the stinging tears with the back of his wrist. He pressed his cheek against the camera, framed an overhanging branch through the viewfinder, and held his breath. Then he squeezed the shutter release and snapped a rapid series of shots while he gave special attention to the moose’s eyes. He’d learned over the years to go for that split second when a single ray of sunlight reflected off a pupil.

A commotion arose in the scrub oak some fifty yards to his right. The moose raised its head to stare in the direction of the sound then moved briskly into thicker foliage.

A raven burst from a tree and cawed. Three others surged from the cover of the tall pines and circled above. More flew in from behind and shrieked while those on nearby trees seemed to answer. One raven, with a wingspan the size of a broom, folded its wings and dived at him, landing only a few feet away with a rasping honk as if to berate him. He grabbed a stick and swatted at the damn bird then hurled the makeshift weapon at another roosting on a higher branch.

The clamoring flock flew away.

There was a sudden cemetery quiet, a stillness like he’d never known in the outdoors, as if no life of any sort existed around him. The only sounds were air rushing in and out through his nose and the ringing in his ears. When he turned to move back down the path, a rumble erupted from the brush. He jerked around.

The ebony black creature galloped straight for him.

It’s not possible ! Wolves don’t attack people.

The wolf’s lunge struck him like a sledgehammer. He threw up his arms to protect his face and gasped for breath as he tumbled into the shallow water at the river’s edge. His skull smashed against the gravel and his tailbone slammed into the sharp edge of a rock. Lying on his back, he tried to move his arms to wrap them around his head, but only one arm feebly responded. When he attempted to pull in his knees, a streak of pain shot through his body as if a pitchfork had pierced his backbone.

The curl of the beast’s upper lip flashed red above ivory while the animal charged again and again. He gagged as the fangs knifed deep into his throat—twisting, yanking. Ripping at flesh, powerful jaws battered his head into the mud.

After a brief eternity, it was over.

No longer feeling attached to his quivering torso he glanced down at the blood gushing like a pulsing fountain from his neck.

The wolf sat on its haunches and licked at its snout.

A raven flew down and dug its claws into the side of Parsons’ face. It pecked away at the open wound in his throat, stabbing over and over and over. Another raven landed on his head and plucked the tender flesh from around his eyeballs before its beak plunged into the sockets.

The searing pain was no longer bearable. Drifting on the edge of consciousness, Gus Parsons finally worked one shaky hand up to his face and wiped at the blood that dribbled down his cheek alongside the streaming tears.

JoshPendleton tossed aside the canvas tarp that had covered the carcass of a llama. The animal’s broken body lay smashed against a twelve-foot section of the blood-splattered, split-rail fence. The beautiful animal’s distended neck that had buckled over the top rail was almost severed. Flies buzzed around the gaping hole where blood had oozed out, drenching the black and white wool coat. Except for the head, the body was surprisingly intact.

“Ever seen anything like it, Doc?” Josh asked.

“Not even close.”

“Damn puzzling. It wasn’t only a male, but a flock leader. One of my liveliest and fastest.”

“Have you spotted any tracks?” Dieter asked.

“Can’t tell too much. I chased off a pack of coyotes with my shotgun twice already. They’ve managed to mess up the area pretty good.” Josh waved his hand in dismissal. “The only scat I’ve found is fresh stuff from those coyotes. But no damn doubt in my mind—it’s a wolf kill.”

Dieter walked closer to the carcass and stooped down. He brushed back the fur with his fingertips until he found the impression of a bite just below the neck where the sharp upper cuspids must have penetrated. Making a fist, he straightened out his forefinger and little finger to form goalposts. He held it up to the bite marks and then displayed the measurement for Josh.

“That looks like three inches, Doc. Can you picture the size of the jaws?”

Rusty barked from Molly’s truck bed and wagged his tail. A brown pickup with the logo of the US National Park Service wended its way toward them.

“Well, waddaya know,” Josh said. “Look who finally made it.”

“I can’t believe the pull Josh Pendleton has,” Molly whispered to Dieter.

The pickup stopped only ten yards away and two men in park ranger uniforms and Smokey Bear hats stepped out. It wasn’t hard to make out who was in charge. With a royal-like stroll, the head honcho flaunted well-tanned, angular features and a chin held too high. When Josh and Molly exchanged greetings with him, there was a sudden undercurrent, as if present among feuding cousins at the annual family picnic.

Josh gestured toward him. “Chief Corey, meet the new vet in town. Dr. Peter Hammond.”

Dieter held out his hand. “That’s Harmon, Dieter Harmon. Pleased to meet you, Chief.”

Yellowstone’s chief park ranger explored Dieter’s face. He didn’t smile as he held out his hand to shake, a forceful grasp that lasted too long.

Jack Corey introduced his fellow ranger as Bantz Montgomery, who politely touched the brim of his hat, nodded and stepped back as if he knew his place.